


I Ride Fast (you are my breaks)

by unfortunate17



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: M/M, ziam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-04
Updated: 2013-03-04
Packaged: 2017-12-04 06:28:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/707597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unfortunate17/pseuds/unfortunate17
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>SUMMARY: in which zayn lives fast, afraid of stops, and liam is able to slam his brakes (alternatively, the one in which a wanderer finds a name to ink into his skin)</p><p>“this,” he says, “is you.”</p><p> liam furrows his brow, “but it’s blank.”</p><p>and zayn smiles nervously, “exactly,” and now his voice gets kind of small and he bites his lips, “because i seem to be able to draw everything except you.” he stares at the grain in the wood, suddenly feeling foolish..."</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Ride Fast (you are my breaks)

**Author's Note:**

> Again, I’m American so please excuse my dialect, slang, depiction of places, and any specifics of British culture I’ve gotten wrong.
> 
> WARNINGS: Racism, Islamophobia, Homophobia, Drug Use, Abuse, & Sexual References (PG16).
> 
> meri jaan - my life
> 
> tu meri zindagi ho - you are my life
> 
> zain - beautiful

………………………………..

“I drive fast, I am alone in the night,

been trying hard not to get into trouble, but I’ve got a war in my mind,

so I just ride, just ride….”

 - “Ride” by Lana del Rey

………………………………..

zayn blames the people around him for the way he is, for the way he sees home. he doesn’t see home as a roof over his head or a place he returns to every night, or a place that smells like his mum. instead, zayn sees home where he rests his head at night, in the body that he’s keeping warm that night, in the ink that mars his skin (with which he desperately tries to cover the scars).

………………………………..

 _meri jaan, you have the soul of a chameleon,_ his mother used to say as she cupped his tearstained cheeks with her soft hands, smelling of lilac and the kitchen and of home.

 _i can’t help it_ , he’d say (even though he really wants to ask,  _why do they hate me_ ).

tricia always seems to understand though,  _nobody hates you zain,_ she smiles bravely though zayn can see the quiver of lips and chin under the soothing expression (he doesn’t know whether that comforts him or terrifies him).  _nobody could hate you, ok?_ and zayn would smile, kiss his mother, and whisper  _ok_.

and the next day in school, he’d duck under the bleachers to breathe in sweet, sweet smoke with the same mouth.

(zayn is thirteen).

………………………………..

zayn (he hated the way his mother used to say  _zain_ ) is not a prostitute - no matter what the kids in school say. not really. he doesn’t get paid for what he does. and hell, he likes what he does (he reckons slut or manwhore would be more fitting - he feels like he’d be labeled as such any life). but, there’s something exhilarating about not knowing who’s pushing into him - about not knowing who’s swallowing him down - about not knowing who he’s riding. (and zayn rides fast, rides fast and hard and never looks back).

he rides - away from the,  _zayn, man, dunno where you’re from but where we’re from, it’s not ok to blow stuff up, yeah?_

and the,  _how do you plan on fixing that 9/11 mess?_

and the,  _fucking terrorist cunt, son of a bitch._

and not to forget the,  _i tell you mate, hitler was after the wrong race._

and one sunday afternoon, his father catches him in bed with a white boy.

zayn knows he’s done something wrong especially when his father stands, staring in disbelief, with his jaw unhinged as the boy, mike or michael or something, hurriedly reaches for his clothes while zayn simply lays flat on his bed, bruises blooming on his collarbones as he traces the ceiling with his eyes.

then mike or micheal is blabbering his goodbyes while Yasser is shouting,  _you have one minute to get out of this house_ (the faggot at the end goes unsaid), and zayn is feeling a twisted sense of accomplishment. (that’s right dad, your son is fucking faggot).

yasser rounds on him the minute he hears the back door slam (god forbid mike - or michael - leave through the front door because then people might actually _see_ ).

“get dressed,” he spits at zayn and zayn raises a delicate eyebrow in response, “ _now_ zayn.”

he punctuates the words by wrapping his fingers, with bruising force, around zayn’s bicep and throwing him towards the dresser.

his father sits down heavily in zayn’s chair (gingerly avoiding the bed), muttering _unbelievable,_  and  _my own son._ (zayn wants to laugh in his face).

he pinches the bridge of his nose, “what in god’s name was that, zayn?” zayn opens his mouth to make a snarky remark, but his father beats him to it, “no nonsense - what the fuck was that?”

zayn smiles cruelly, “that was your son getting it on with another faggot that’s just like him.” and quite suddenly his face his sent reeling because - oh - there it is.

yasser is breathing heavily, hand raised and, surprisingly, it looks like he’s trying to restrain himself. zayn knows from both experience and the scars that mangle his body that his father’s restraint isn’t very good.

the first time it happens, zayn is nine. he’s just come home from school with a paper in his hands that’s completely blotted out with red because apparently, zayn is a terrible writer. tricia is sweet and  _hush little one_  as she presses kisses to zayn’s tear stained cheeks and tells him that one day he’ll write a novel because he’s  _zain_ and she just knows her  _jaan_ can do anything. (zayn tells her he wants to write a comic book and she tinkers and says he can do that too if he wants).

yasser, on the other hand, is furious, terrifying, and when tricia leaves to pick up the milk she’s forgotten, zayn is bent over his bedroom floor as his father’s belt cracks down on his back, stinging salt each time it lands. zayn remembers crying, crying,  _screaming_  but he can’t stand because his knees are giving out and his fingers (and toes, and feet, and back, and  _body_ ) ache from being pressed into the wood floor.

yasser is screaming nonsense, and zayn is surprised he can even make out the garbled speech over the haze of pain, “i won’t have my son be a disgrace - you do well in school zayn you understand?” it’s punctured with another  _crack_. (and zayn understands, even at nine, that it’s not really about the paper).

when his mother finds the plethora of  blues and greens and browns on his back in the bath a few days later, zayn frowns at the bathtub, refuses to meet her eyes, and tells her of the boys at school -  _tom parker and his mates amma, they hate me._ (it’s not untrue, zayn consoles himself, as he lies to the woman that holds him and kisses him and brings him that glass of water in the middle of the night).

 _ok_ his mother responds softly (though zayn thinks this is when she began to suspect).

the years are punctured with a scrape here, a bruise here, and a cut there but the next time it’s that serious, zayn is thirteen, and just returning from a football match that his team had royally screwed. (the passing was all wrong, the coach had said, and the shooting? jesus christ, i think it’s time for those extra practices. but malik - nice job, lad). and see, the thing is, zayn  _really_ loves football - he’s fast, lean, smart, agile and just really, really good. (he remembers the half-smile that pulled his father’s lips when zayn had quietly told him that he’d made the team).

they’re walking back to the pitch and zayn is feeling like a fucking failure because his father had watched the game and there’s already a hardness about his mouth and in the tight press of his lips.  and desperate to distract himself from his brooding father (that’s where you got it from zayn, people tell him, making zayn shudder) he turns to the two of his team-mates behind him that are locked in a walking wrestling match and says, and not quietly either, “you lot need jesus.”

by the time he realizes that his words have made yasser freeze up beside him, it’s too late for zayn to take them back. he wants to slam himself into a wall - for god’s sake he’s such a  _fucking_ idiot.

turns out zayn doesn’t have to slam himself up against anything - his father does that for him - screaming, shouting that zayn is a muslim for fucks sake and he better start acting like one (the floor length mirror shatters, littering glass and debris all over zayn’s bedroom floor and he swears he’s never seen that much blood - red, hot, pulsating - and  _jesus_  can a person even bleed that much?)

he tells his mum that he kicked his football into the glass in the emergency room after being rushed into surgery and tricia files for divorce. (but by then the doctor had come and spoken in that soft, soothing tone that told zayn all he needed to know - he left the hospital with  _the boy has a shattered kneecap, mrs. malik, and i’m sorry, zayn, but football needs to stop if you want to keep your leg_ ).

zayn doesn’t remember the custody battle because all that mattered was that his dad got him because his amma didn’t have a job ( _no respectable muslim women work, tricia - your’re my wife, and as your husband i forbid you_ ), and with absolutely no source of income or a shred of savings, she didn’t make a convincing argument.

he does, however, remember the fear in her eyes as she bends down to envelop him in an embrace. zayn is sure they’ll be scarce in his life now. (she smells like lilac and the kitchen and of  _home_ and zayn wants to tear his eyes out).  _meri jaan,_ she whispers,  _tu meri zindagi ho, zain_.  _meri zindagi_.  that’s the last time he sees her before she’s lowered into the ground five months later ( _tu meri zindagi, amma, meri zindagi_ ).

and he sheds  _urdu,_ sheds  _zain,_ and sheds  _love -_ and all that’s left is  _zayn_ (and sometimes, when he’s looking at his useless knee and old football jersey in his hands, it leaves a bitter taste in his mouth).

and now zayn stands there, unflinchingly, as his father’s fists press bruises into his skin (he’s honestly had far, far worse. what’s even funnier is that muslim fathers being abusive is so  _stereotypical -_ but his dad is. zayn doesn’t understand what that means, but he does think it’s hysterical).

finally, yasser steps back, sweat shining on his forehead, “get out of my house.”

but  _wait_ , this is new, “what?”

his father shoves him to his closet, “zayn, pack what you want and get out - you’re no son of mine.”

and zayn snarls because  _who needs him_  and yasser leaves the room with a slam of the door that echoes when zayn leaves twenty minutes later. (except his father left his room and zayn had left his house).

(zayn is fifteen).

………………………………..

turns out, there isn’t much a fifteen-year-old can do on the streets (at least not until he turns sixteen and gets a work permit). but then - oh - zayn is remembering all the times he used to ride and thinks, yes. i can do that - i like doing that - i’m good at doing that. (his father would be  _so_ proud).

he’s not a prostitute. not really. but he is getting paid for it (and he doesn’t enjoy it as much now because the men are older and rougher, fucking him open before zayn gives them the green light - and they condescendingly pat his cheek when zayn tells them he’s fifteen). but it’s bringing in the cash and zayn usually has enough to lay his head down in a cheap motel room (whether rented by him or the man he happens to be with) and to cover the cost of gas station food.

it’s decent living and zayn likes to think he’s turning his life into a work of art (he’s got nothing to lose or gain so why the hell not?) and sometimes, sometimes his fingers itch for his cheap charcoal and graphite pencils (cheap then but now well out of his price range).

but even though he can’t draw and he’s pretty much always sore - he’s the right kind of sore. not the  _blood oozing from gashes_ ,  _fucking terrorist_ kind of sore.

and he’s certainly not the  _shattered kneecap_ kind ofsore.

………………………………..

zayn gets his first job when he’s sixteen and a half and as a result, stops going out at night. it’s not really a conscious decision he makes, but the fast food place he’s managed to land a spot in opens at five in the morning (zayn’s had to learn to be a morning person - something he, in a past life, had hated with a passion) and closes at midnight. zayn has managed to convince the manager to let him work both the shifts that run through the day and he’s just so fucking tired after that he can barely drag himself to the small, shithole apartment he’s secured. (the manager takes one look at his dramatic cheekbones and hazel eyes and says that its a fantastic idea and makes him work the front counter all day). zayn should be flattered really, but he’s not because he knows he’s pretty - he’s heard it plenty (except it always sounds like  _god zayn, so good yeah - you’re so fucking pretty. so pretty_ , but he figures he’ll take what he can get at this point).

five months later, just before zayn is going to turn seventeen(everything always seems to happen to zayn  _in five months_ ) , liam payne walks in (and zayn doesn’t know it yet - but his life will never be the same).

he’s nothing extraordinary at first glance -in fact he’s the kind of kid zayn wouldn’t have spoken to even back at school (it just all seems like a distant dream now). liam payne, as he finds out from the obnoxious jocks that seem to orbit him while he waits in line (zayn catches sight of a football jersey and a black and white ball and something tightens impossibly in his throat), takes forever to order. he cancels twice and finally picks a pork sandwich that costs about eight dollars and zayn wants to spit in his face because that’s more than his hourly salary. (as zayn is making the sandwich, picking up pig and laying it between the bread, he can’t help but think about his muslim father).

liam blushes when zayn hands him the plastic- to go order and zayn understands that  _oh that’s how it is_ because liam is a fucking open book (he wouldn’t last two hours in zayn’s world). zayn smirks in return, specially for liam - he’s learned over the years how to best show off his cheekbones. liam’s friends are wolf whistling and liam opens his mouth to say something, but zayn never finds out what.

“fucking faggots, get a move on!” it’s the man behind liam in line who’s obviously very impatient to order and doesn’t want to see anymore of their flirting.

zayn rolls his eyes, but liam turns even redder, “we-we weren’t,” he’s mumbling nonsense and zayn smirks at him (it’s been a while since he’s seen anyone this innocent - he also knows that it could very well be an act).

the man growls again and liam squeaks out a sorry before he’s led out by his friends, who throw snarling insults at the man while zayn stares quietly.

(and zayn wishes he had friends.)

………………………………..

the next time liam walks in on him, zayn is rifling through the coat rack in goodwill. it’s only october but it’s already chilly and it looks like the winter is going to pack one hell of a punch, and zayn is seriously going to have to rethink the heatless apartment but he doesn’t have anywhere else to go (not that he can - not that he can afford it - not that - ).

“hey.”

zayn turns abruptly because he really, really doesn’t want a repeat incident and nor does he want to lose the chance of having a coat.

(…”hey”

zayn glances over his shoulder to see two african american men, leaning up against the side of a shady looking building, smoking their way through something that didn’t smell anything remotely like cigarettes. (zayn thinks he recognizes it, tastes it, back from when he was younger and for a second he craves it - but no fucking money). he nods curtly and picks up his pace because, really, he just wants to  _get the fuck outta here._

“where you going, mate?”

“yeah, we just wanna have a chat.”

christ. it’s a half past midnight and zayn just doesn’t have the patience to deal with this. he pulls his coat tighter around him ready to run if need be.

“know what I think?”  
“what?”

“think he’s got a bomb under there, don’tcha?”

zayn hears someone laugh, but it’s not the regular kind (he does it sometimes when he’s high off his face, pressing into old scars, twisting his knee knob, and thinking about yasser.)

he feels hands probing his body and he lashes out viciously (it’s been a long time since someone had touched him like that, touched him with the promise to bruise - though the bruising he got recently was of a different caliber).

“babe,” one man has the end of his coat, and while zayn has half a mind to leave it - he can’t because it’s already cold meaning it’s going to be  _freezing_ later this year. “babe slow down, we’re just doin our duty as respectable citizens,” he slurs.

zayn growls, low and threatening, “get the fuck off me.”

the other man smiles widely, “we’re not on you - though we can be if you want us to, love.”

zayn snorts in disgust (though these  _were_  the kinds of men he used to pick up before). “let go,” he says again, firmly.

the men laugh and his coat is suddenly released, making zayn tumble to the ground, face first. he groans, feeling gravel embed itself in his cheeks and while he’s still disoriented, the coat is pulled off his shoulders as the men jeer and stagger away (with a kick in zayn’s side for good measure.)

and zayn is left cold and bloody on the ground.

(just like so many times before) ….)

what zayn sees when he spins around gives him a different sort of heart attack - liam payne (why does he still remember his name?) is standing a few feet away, hands stuffed in pockets with a (probably very warm) coat buttoned up to his throat.

“zayn,” he inclines his head and zayn tries to look everywhere but him. and when that doesn’t work, he plasters a confused expression on his face.

(he’s actually a bit embarrassed - mortified is probably a better word - because it had been a while since anyone had fancied him without knowing for certain that he was going to sleep with them.)

liam scoffs, at zayn’s lost expression, “come on, mate. I know you remember.”

zayn raises an eyebrow, “remember what?,” he asks childishly.

liam smiles, “in that case, hi, i’m liam.” zayn snorts and liam makes a noise of triumph, “i knew you remembered.”

he sighs, lightly hopping to fend off the breeze (because christ,  were warehouses always this  _cold_ ), “was there something you wanted?”

liam furrows his brow, “what’re you doing here?”

zayn gestures to the rack, “looking for a coat.” (he can’t seem to find anything that fits - too big he can handle but generally, too small is useless - but zayn is pretty desperate at this time).

liam frowns, “in here?”

 ”yeah, so what?”

liam shakes his head, “so nothing.”

zayn’s eyebrows raise, “now the question is what brings you here.” he eyes liam’s fresh sneakers, stylishly cut jeans, and warm coat.

liam smiles, “i volunteer here.”

and god,  _of course,_ zayn should have  _guessed_.

“that’s great, but uh,” zayn looks to his left and right wildly but comes up with nothing, “i gotta go, ok? see ya.” (zayn doesn’t need to go - he needs a coat, damnit).

but liam steps forward earnestly, “but didn’t you come in here for something?”

zayn rolls his eyes because liam is  _un-fucking-believable._ “no,” he says in a tone that clearly warns liam to back-the-fuck-off.

and now liam is eying him (in way that makes zayn really uncomfortable because now he’s hyperaware of the scrapes on his arms and the light limp in his knee after a long day behind the counter), looking at his thin white t-shirt and worn jeans. he glances outside just as the wind rattles the old windows and zayn is really not looking forward to going back out there at all, let alone walking all the way home.

“are you cold, zayn?”

zayn shrugs, “no, this is great weather, man.” his tone is more sarcastic than he means it to be but liam’s tone has  _worry_ in and  _what the fuck_ zayn has no idea how to deal with that.

liam, unsurprisingly, doesn’t buy it. he looks back to the rack of coats zayn is standing in front of and down at himself (and  _no way in hell is he going to -_ ).

he shrugs off his coat ( _and he just did_ ), holding it out to zayn and zayn doesn’t really know what to do. he’s pretty used to people trying to take things from him - but giving him things? (his amma always used to give, but that’s somewhere zayn doesn’t go anymore - he doesn’t think he can actually.)

liam moves it up and down in front of zayn’s face, “here you go,” he says (and where in heck did this boy come from? because zayn doesn’t know whether he wants to go live there or avoid the place like the plague).

the windows rattle again, and before that small part in zayn that still has it’s dignity can protest against the larger part of him that’s just -  _well_  - cold, he reaches out and swipes the coat from liam, quite rudely too (but liam just smiles and his eyes crinkle and he just looks so impossibly  _kind_  that zayn’s sort of waiting for him pull out his knife).

“thanks,” he says gruffly.

“couldn’t let you freeze.” (and god, why can’t he just say  _you’re welcome_  like every other fucking normal person on this planet?)

“right,” zayn says awkwardly, because  _no, it’s not right_.

“see you soon?” and now liam looks hopeful and zayn can’t fathom how they’d ever do so until liam is pulling out his mobile phone and holding it out to him.

zayn blushes a deep red (like  _what the fuck_ ), “i uh, um - don’t have one. sorry.”

and liam drops his hand, embarrassed. “right, sorry. should ‘ve figured.”

zayn narrows his eyes, “why?” (because come on, damnit, he has a job and everything. his father would be so proud.)

liam swallows and looks at the ground while he shuffles his feet, “i mean - well, you look a little,” he glances up at zayn, words dying in his throat. “nevermind,” he squeaks.

but now, zayn is  _gone_ , because he’s not weak. (being weak means being that boy with bruises on his body - and he’s not, ok, they’re different people, yeah?).

“i look like what, liam?” and zayn’s never heard his voice so cold (he could have been talking to yasser.)

“like you -” liam fidgets under zayn’s sharp gaze, “like you needed help.”

and zayn really can’t stay mad (he wants to,  _god knows he wants to_ ) because apparently even he’s not immune to honest, puppy resembling, coat giving, caring boys.  

liam takes his silence as a bad sign, “i, i’m sorry.” he fixes his gaze on the scuff of his sneakers, “i just thought - i was dumb, ok. and i’m sorry.” (and  _jesus_  why is he apologizing?)

zayn closes his eyes and rubs his forehead, “no it’s cool, yeah,” he sighs, “i’m just tired, mate. sorry for snapping at you.”

liam smiles shyly and steps forward, and hesitantly lays a hand on zayn’s shoulder (zayn jumps, because he knows what to do if the person was promising a bruise, knows what to do if they’re promising a good fuck - but here - what does liam want and more importantly, what does zayn have to do?), “you’ll be ok,” he tells him firmly, with an edge of calm in his voice, and zayn doesn’t know whether he’s wishing him luck or confirming something.

so he says, “thanks,” in return (because really, what does he say to that?)

liam smiles wider, “be warm.”

(and when zayn puts the coat on after he exits the warehouse, he thinks it smells like liam - and a little like someone who used to murmur  _zain_ into his ear. yes, zayn thinks - there it is - a little like lilac, a little like a kitchen, a little like  _home_ (with a spicy dash of liam). and zayn smiles genuinely for the first time in what feels like years).

………………………………..

liam starts to show up at the diner, this time without the jocks and zayn can’t believe liam remembers (liam laughs and tells him its because of his cheekbones, but zayn’s not too sure he’s joking). and even though zayn groans at the sight of him because  _didn’t you give me your coat as a goodbye gift?,_ he’s secretly glad to see him (zayn has never made anyone want come back without making them _come_ first and he has to admit, it makes him feel a little less useless when he needs to sit down in between his shifts because his knee feels like it’s going to give out.)

it’s a hot, sticky july afternoon and there’s hardly been any business all day so liam and zayn are lounging across the plastic tables as liam tells him a story of that time he had to quit his high school’s football team because he was simply so _awful and he doesn’t know how he got on the team in the first place_. (and zayn wants to cry because his knee feels like it’s only getting worse with time and he has trouble climbing anything steep now. he wants to tell liam why  _he_ quit football, but finds he just doesn’t have the words, so he does what he does (second) best - and just listens). liam is in the middle of  _no really, i’d even managed to wear my shin guards wrong_ (zayn’s lips are pulling upwards at his honesty)when the bell at the front door rings, signaling a customer and zayn groans lightly as liam nudges him up.

“hey - you taking the orders?” it’s a man, presumably in his mid-thirties, who’s wearing nice clothes and has blond hair. (what are doing here zayn wants to shout, but he looks back at the table over liam is spread out over - and thinks oh). zayn nods his head, but realizes the man is actually looking a liam.

he raises his hand crookedly, “no um-” the man’s eyes swivel to catch zayn with a disconcerting stare, “that’s me.”

the man narrows his eyes. “nevermind,” he mutters before heading back to the door.

zayn shrugs and is ready to let it go because  _hey people are weird,_ but liam has always been a little too caring (nosy) for his own good.

“didn’t you want anything?” liam calls kindly, (of course kindly, when doesn’t liam do anything kindly?) before the man reaches the door.

the man stops and throws liam a look, “i did - but i don’t really want him touching anything i’m going to be eating.” and with a sickening twist of his gut, zayn snaps his mouth shut, swallowing anything he was going to say. (he’s finally understood why all those boys used to hate him).

liam, bless him, is confused (and he probably thinks it’s some kind of a joke). “come on mate, he’s not about to put anything in it is he?” he tries for a bright grin (it should be illegal zayn thinks because it makes liam look impossibly honest and earnest and all that shit).

the man shrugs, “you never know - you can never put anything passed those pakis.”

zayn shifts uncomfortably (because, as much as he hates to admit it, he’s a little too used to this) but not liam, no liam, is on his feet, eyes hard and lips pulled downwards.

this only seems to amuse the man further, “you his faggot-y boyfriend?” liam’s face flames, and the man starts to laugh (but not the normal kind zayn notices - he sounds like those black men that night), “christ - be a fag for all i care, but really? a fucking paki?” 

“hey,” zayn snaps, because really, he’s heard enough, “lay off him, yeah?”

the man looks to him and there’s an unexplainable fire of hatred in the way he pins zayn down with his gaze. “don’t talk to me like that,” he growls, then mutters, more to himself than anything, “fucking paki - think you’re better than me, do you?” he stalks towards zayn menacingly, fists raised, and then everything happens a little too fast for zayn to process.

he remembers closing his eyes, bracing, as his father flashed in front of his eyes, but the hit never comes. liam shoves zayn out of the way and punches the man square in the face - and his nose looks broken and blood is gushing and liam looks horrified and zayn wants to laugh - but he has no support to keep him upright after liam’s shove.

and - oh - he’s landing, falling, hitting,  _slamming_ into the hard tiles (liam can  _push,_ he thinks dimly) and his right kneecap, his  _bad_  kneecap, is breaking, splintering, _shattering_ and zayn is yelling, shouting,  _screaming_  because  _allah-hu-akbar it hurts_ , _god liam it hurts, amma please it hurts._

_(zain, amma is shouting - zayn, liam is shouting - and he doesn’t know who he is anymore)._

………………………………..

when he does wake up - it’s to white walls, sterile tables, and liam bright and warm and real against his side.

“ _zayn_ ,” liam gasps as his eyes flutter open (so  _that’s_ who he is - liam’s  _zayn_ ), “zayn god i - please, god zayn -  _zayn_.” and this lovely, kind, honest boy (who zayn half swears is not real) is sobbing into his chest. it’s garbled but he’s fairly certain liam is saying something along the lines of  _sorry, so sorry, please, forgive me, zayn, zayn, zayn, zayn_ (and for a minute he hears amma’s  _zain_ in liam’s  _zayn_ and thinks for the first time that they might be the same person and that person might just be  _him -_ even though both  _zain_ and  _zayn_ sound impossibly loved).

he runs what he thinks are his fingers (can’t really feel anything - but zayn knows from plenty of experience that it’s just the painkillers) through liam’s hair and then he can feel him shuddering into his chest.

liam lifts his head, puffy, watery eyes meeting zayn’s. “i’m sorry,” he whispers again, “christ zayn, i’m so sorry. so sorry.”

and zayn smiles because it’s the first time someone’s apologized to him after landing him in here - so he’s not too mad (not mad at all actually - that warm feeling pooling in what feels like his heart is definitely not anger). and zayn, for the first time since his mother hugged him goodbye, lying broken in a hospital bed, feels  _loved_  because  _christ, liam cares. liam cares. liam fucking cares._

“thank you,” he whispers back and liam’s mouth sort of opens and he looks down at him in a  _what are you talking about_ look _._

zayn smiles again, because liam - liam - always liam. “for bringing me here.”

liam looks around, confused, until he understands, “jesus zayn, you were in so much pain.”

he pauses, recollecting, and his eyes brim (he doesn’t flinch back when zayn moves to wipe them off and zayn wants to  _fly_ ), “i could hardly just leave you.”

“you don’t know how many people have.” 

………………………………..

when the doctor leaves the room the next morning with  _mr. malik, i’m so sorry but this was the last straw. we can get you fitted for a wheelchair as soon as we’re sure the cast will hold,_ zayn thinks he’s supposed to be devastated, but watching liam’s devastated expression all zayn can think is - is this all they wanted? a leg? because as zayn watches liam’s eyes fill with emotion  _over him_ , zayn thinks it’s a quite a small price to pay.

“come here,” he says softly as liam apologizes for the umpteen time, patting his bedside. liam shuffles over to kneel beside him, hands flying to delicately ghost over his broken knee before he turns to look at zayn.

“why aren’t you mad at me?” he breathes.

and zayn’s eyes are fierce and bright and liam finds himself catching his breath, “i have so much to tell you li.” (because he’s found the words now - and he’s going to  _just ride_  - but not away this time). so zayn, in a dingy hospital room, with a broken knee and useless leg, finally,  _finally_ speaks to the boy that he still can’t believe is real, but he’s hoping now, and when zayn hopes - it’s bright and fierce like his eyes.

(and zayn feels  _urdu,_ feels  _zain,_ and feels  _love_ fall back at his finger tips)

………………………………..

zayn understands liam will probably never stop feeling at least a little bit guilty and he understands that his armor, however loosened, will probably never melt away completely. but liam knows the kinks in his armor and he knows when to seep in and when to let zayn open up to let him in.

five months later they’re cuddled together on liam’s sofa, watching some crappy sitcom, (he’d insisted zayn move in and while liam went to uni, zayn had managed to scrape a high school diploma and a seat at an art institute - and honestly, if life was decent before, life was  _good_ now - really good in fact) when the telephone rings loudly from the kitchen.

liam sighs tiredly and pulls himself up to answer the phone (it’s times like these that zayn really wishes he could walk again) and zayn glances up to see liam bring him the headset.

” ‘s for you,” he says (and zayn can already tell that he’s curious), holding it out to him.

zayn smiles his thanks and presses the phone to his ear with one hand while he tries to grab liam’s wandering, tickling hand with the other. “hello,” he huffs into the phone, shooting liam a warning glare (liam grins in reply, the cheeky sod).

“zayn?” and zayn nearly drops the phone because -

“ _dad?_ ”

zayn feels liam’s gaze crack to him.

“zayn,” yasser is saying, weezing slightly, “come tell your old man goodbye, yeah?”

………………………………..

zayn and liam are standing (well, zayn is sitting) at the door to his flat - packed and ready with the all the covers drawn over the windows and zayn’s unfinished works.

liam looks down at him with a look, “you don’t have to do this, you know.”

zayn looks down as well, “but i do,” then mutters, “you’ve rubbed off on me too much.”

but liam is cupping his cheeks and tilting his face up, “zayn,” he says and even one syllable is so much when it comes from liam.

“it’s ok li,” he swallows, “i’ve got you, yeah?”

and liam’s smile reaches his eyes as they search zayn’s face wildly, “yeah,” he says, “yeah you do.”

………………………………..

it’s only on the train going to bradford that, while he’s sitting, pressed into liam’s side, hands intertwined, that zayn wonders why they aren’t together, together. because he’s sure he’s already in love with liam (and if he dares, liam is in love with him too).

so he looks up at liam, who’s got his head tilted back against the seat, rocking gently with the sway of the train, “li” he says.

“hmm?” liam cracks his eyes open. zayn’s hair is tickling his chin.   
“can i kiss you?”

liam smiles, “yes.”

and that’s that.

………………………………..

when they get to the hospital, the nurses, (who tell them that yasser had been desperate to call zayn and had finally found his number through the institute and said  _my son’s an artist, you know, an artist_ ), direct them up to the room and make it clear that it’s time to say goodbye - last stages of stomach cancer they say. and zayn, even after spending years hating yasser, is not prepared to see his  _father_ on the hospital bed waiting to see  _him_  (and oh have the roles reversed).

yasser doesn’t turn to greet them when liam wheels zayn into the room. instead, he has a rag pressed to his mouth as he tries to cough up the fluids that zayn knows are caught in his lungs. and zayn can’t fathom how this man - this old, old man with the weight of the world on his dying shoulders, had ever managed to strike fear into his heart and locked him in a place so alone, it had literally taken a leg to get out off.

“baba,” his voice breaks (and he hasn’t called yasser that since he was seven and running up to show him a portrait of his amma. baba had smiled then and patted him on his fat cheek that his amma had just kissed. “you’ll make your old man proud, yet, zain.” and zayn remembers hearing tricia’s tinkling laughter as baba looked up at her, with a kind of love in his eyes that had made zayn think, even at seven, that he was going to find a love like that. he was going to know a love like that.) he involuntarily tightens his grip on liam’s fingers and liam’s thumb runs soothingly over his knuckles until zayn can breathe again.

“baba,” he tries in a whipser, “can you hear me?” (partly because zayn is so, so tired of being angry and partly because zayn hasn’t been able to find that anger  - that riding anger - since liam).

baba opens his eyes and he just looks so incredibly tired, “zayn,” he breathes, eyeing the wheelchair, “what happened?”

zayn smiles bitterly, “it finally gave out.” (and that’s not untrue).

baba simply nods and turns back to the ceiling. “i hate hospitals,” he whispers and zayn chuckles darkly at the irony.

“me too.”

then baba meets his eyes and zayn feels an understanding flow through them.

“who’s this?” baba gestures to liam.

liam stiffens and zayn brings forward their intertwined, “this is liam,” he says and that really - that says everything. liam gives the man a faint smile, which baba returns.

“looks like a nice lad,” he says softly, before hacking into the handkerchief and zayn frowns, eying his heaving chest. “make him happy, yeah?” liam’s brow furrows when he realizes he’s being adressed and he makes to interject, but baba continues, “make my son happy, liam - in a way i couldn’t.”

zayn feels the tears overrun, “that’s not true.” he turns to him and zayn swallows, meeting his eyes square on because he’s  _done_ hiding, “you did make me happy once, baba.”

the man sighs, and looks out the window, “i just wanted to be proud of you - to look at everyone and say  _yes, that’s my son.”_ he takes in a shaky breath, “so i tried to  _mold_ you - make you what  _i_  wanted instead of what  _you_  wanted. it’s taken me all these years to see that i’m proud regardless because you’re my son and that’s enough.”

zayn feels a sob rip out of his throat because  _christ he’s telling the truth, he’s telling the fucking truth._

baba laughs, different than zayn remembers (and he realizes with a start that it’s the right kind of laugh - the one he finds himself emitting more often now, the one which liam laughs). “look at you,” he says, “an  _artist_ ,” his voice breaks, “ _yes,”_ he whispers then, more to himself than anyone else present in the room, “ _that’s my son.”_

and zayn reaches to bury his face into one of baba’s weathered hands (funny how they feel so different now - so different than the fists that pressed bruises into his skin).

“i’m not asking for forgiveness, jaan,” baba shakes his head, “i understand that it’s too much - but do you understand, zain?”

and zayn smiles, tears pooling in the groves of his cheeks and he feels liam brush them away (like always, he thinks) and his father smiles at him, “good lad,” he says quietly.

zayn takes a shuddering breath, “i  _will_  forgive you, baba - just, i just need time.” be presses the wrinkled hand tighter between both of his, “but i do understand.”

“good,” baba says sternly, but zayn can see the hints of the man his amma had once loved (and probably never stopped loving, zayn is realizing slowly).

“and now zain, i’m so tired. go on now. see yourself out.”

zayn goes to protest but baba hushes him, “let me die with some dignity, son. (jaan, zain)”

and zayn smiles as liam leads him out of the room, closing another door behind him as he leaves - except it’s so different this time.

(he’s nineteen).

………………………………..

they’re on the train back from bradford, rocking back and forth, swaying back and forth, and liam speaks for the first time in a long silence.

“i love you. so much.”

and zayn will intertwine their fingers and press a kiss to his knuckles. “i love you too. so much.”

………………………………..

and liam learns to forgive himself the same way zayn learns to forgive his baba. ( _tu meri zindagi, baba, meri zindagi_ ) and they find peace within each other.

(…the night zayn allows liam to take him to bed, liam lifts him from his wheelchair up onto the bed and presses kisses to his scars (that don’t really sting anymore) and his tattoos (they’re just art now, not masks)  and his knee (which zayn never really felt too bad about in the first place - but now understands is a bargain, a deal so to speak, to ensure that zayn keeps his side).

and finally, when liam does lay him out on the bed, zayn remembers the way he used to ride in those days (in that other lifetime of sweet smoke and adventure and strangers) and he remembers the way liam had kissed him on the train and thinks -  _i’ve done it right._

but liam shocks him by flipping them over so that zayn is balanced on top of his stomach.

“you’ve done enough riding,” he whispers. “now  _glide_.”

and he rocks his hips and holds zayn’s bad leg gently out of the way as he sucks two, tanned fingers and lets himself be opened up and spread out to zayn.

“glide,” he murmurs into as (finally) zayn pushes into him. liam builds up their rhythm and zayn brings liam that extra bit with his fingers because although zayn may be incapable physically he  _knows liam_ and liam wouldn’t have it any other way.

zayn leans over to press his trembling mouth to liam’s forehead, “are you alright?” he whispers into his skin and liam gasps, for pleasure, for love, for  _zayn_.

he nods because his heart seems to have choked off his vocal cords.

“good,” zayn mumbles continuing to rock forward with liam’s aid and liam can suddenly see the little parts of baba in zayn - all the parts that baba had managed to grasp before slipping away.

“you’d better not be thinking,” zayn mutters as he sucks on liam’s collarbone.

liam shivers, ” ‘m not.”

“good, because i don’t want you to be thinking.”

“ _glide_ ,” liam murmurs again and soon enough there’s heat pooling and  _tightening_ and liam leans up to connect their mouths before he’s tumbling, falling,  _soaring - with zayn right there with him_ …)

there are days when they’re not ok - when all they want to do is scream and zayn wants to run and ride away - so instead he coops himself up in their bedroom with charcoal and graphite pencils and  _glides_  his fingers and smothers the paper with life.

(…this night their fight looks worse than ever - liam had quit his coffee shop job because it kept interfering with zayn’s schedule, making it hard for him to do basic things like get up the flight of stairs to reach the apartment, to which zayn had exploded with  _i’m not a cripple._ even though he sort of was. and zayn had itched for his freedom, for the no-fucks-given days, so he’d locked himself in the studio all night.

in the morning he has a plate of half burned eggs and a blank canvas waiting for liam as he comes out of their bedroom at promptly eight in the morning (zayn is no longer a morning person, so this is quite the surprise). liam raises his eyebrows questioningly, still a little off from the night before so zayn slides the plate over to him. liam begins to eat, picking out the burnt pieces with his fingers and zayn holds up the canvas, catching liam’s attention.

“this,” he says, “is you.”

 liam furrows his brow, “but it’s blank.”

and zayn smiles nervously, “exactly,” and now his voice gets kind of small and he bites his lips, “because i seem to be able to draw everything except you.” he stares at the grain in the wood, suddenly feeling foolish.

but then there’s a scraping sound and liam rounds the table to kneel beside zayn (just like at the hospital all those eons ago). and zayn feels warm, wet kisses being pressed to his ear as liam tightens his grip around zayn’s shoulders. zayn sighs in relief, leaning to give liam better access.

they’re going to be ok (just as always)…)

………………………………..

they’re cuddled up on the sofa (again) in may when liam leaves for the kitchen because  _i just need a drink of water zayn, i’ll be right back, promise - let. go._ and zayn is feeling awfully lonely in those two minutes - and oh - he thinks he’s found a name to ink into his skin.

“li,” he calls.

“coming, zayn,” liam laughs, “god you’re like a leech.” but when he looks up, zayn’s expression is impossibly soft so liam treads carefully as he returns to rewrap himself around zayn.

“i just realized,” zayn whispers and liam presses his fingers to the back of zayn’s neck, “you feel like home.”

liam smiles because is that all?

“zayn,” he breathes, barely a hairbreadth away, like they’re whispering secrets to each other at school (and zayn can actually picture that happening in another life),

“you  _are_  home.”

………………………………..

 

**Author's Note:**

> most of it is taken from very personal moments and memories and my writing makes it all looks so flat and emotionless and just - sorry ok. but i really, really tried and i hope you guys like it all the same.
> 
> You can find me on tumblr under the same username - and sorry to everyone that sees this as a repost.


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